


Unkempt

by theskywasblue



Series: Summer of Love 2020 [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Facial Shaving, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: He feels wretched even asking for this - the simplest of tasks that any grown man should be able to accomplish on his own.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Summer of Love 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816525
Comments: 7
Kudos: 100





	Unkempt

**Author's Note:**

> For my "summer of love" 2020 - the prompt "shaving".
> 
> Haven't written these two in a dog's age. Or maybe a dragon's? I'm sure this isn't terribly good, as a result - but my goal for the summer was to write smut, not necessarily write smut WELL.

“I hope this isn’t too much trouble…” Cullen looks up at Dorian, already armed with the shaving brush and a generous pot of lather, and hesitates. He feels wretched even asking for this - the simplest of tasks that any grown man should be able to accomplish on his own - but the tremors in his hands have been particularly awful for days, and he cannot go to a formal dinner with representatives of The Circle looking like some kind of unkempt ruffian.

“Trust me Commander, it’s no trouble at all. Unless you don’t trust a scary mage near your throat with a well-sharpened razor.” The quirk of his mouth suggests that Dorian is teasing, but there’s still a trace of something cautious in his eyes.

“I trust you, Dorian. I would never have asked, otherwise.”

Dorian clears his throat, and laughs roughly. “More the fool you, then. I can’t possibly promise I’ll do a good job, you know.” He takes Cullen’s chin - gingerly - in one hand, tips his head back, and begins to paint the lather across Cullen’s cheeks.

“Just so long as you don’t accidentally cut one of my ears off.”

“Maker forbid,” Dorian faux-gasps. “I couldn’t bear to be responsible for the ruination of such a handsome face. Imagine the outrage amongst the women of Thedas! They’d eat me alive.”

Cullen’s cheeks feel as if they’re on fire beneath the lather. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he mutters. He’s not much interested in the women of Thedas lately, if he’s honest. Perhaps he never has been. He is - woefully - very interested in the man currently daubing soap on his cheeks and chin, but not brave enough to say so. Dorian could have anyone he wanted - he should hardly be expected to settle for an ex-Lyrium addict whose head aches so badly some mornings he can barely get out of bed, and whose hands cannot be relied upon to hold a razor.

With Cullen’s face thoroughly soaped, Dorian readies the razor. “It would devastate me if I were to wound you, Commander; so please - do us both a favour and unclench your jaw.”

Cullen takes a deep breath, lets his eyes close, thinking perhaps it will be easier if he doesn’t have to see Dorian’s face, so close to his own. It’s not, of course. Instead it only seems to heighten other sensations: the careful pressure of Dorian’s fingers against his cheek and jaw; the sound of his breathing and the tiny, thoughtful hums he makes, adjusting the angle of Cullen’s face this way and that; the whispering drag of the razor through coarse hair, and the gentle splash of the water in the basin; the smell of old paper and ink on Dorian’s fingertips; the delicately sweet musk of perfumes on his skin, oils in his hair. This makes Cullen painfully aware of what he himself must smell like - horsehair, dog fur, the old pines around the training yard. Embarrassing. Cullen’s fingers tremble against his thighs. He hopes Dorian is too preoccupied to notice.

The razor passes effortlessly through lather and hair - Cullen keeps it sharp, even if he doesn’t make use of it as often as he probably should - and after each pass over Cullen’s skin, Dorian’s fingers are there, checking - Cullen thinks - for wounds or stray hairs. Each touch makes Cullen break out in gooseflesh, sets little sparks of warmth in his belly. He hopes that Dorian doesn’t notice this either; though he’s sure he’s breathing a little too quickly for it not to be obvious. His pulse is jumping so close to the surface of his skin that he’s sure Dorian might catch it unintentionally with the razor’s edge.

Dorian’s thumb skims over Cullen’s upper lip, catches on his scar, and slips down, just touching the tooth concealed beneath, and Cullen’s tongue darts forward to touch it on instinct. Dorian gasps, and Cullen’s eyes snap open. Dorian looks shocked - almost betrayed - but he schools his face quickly, and draws his hand away.

“Almost finished,” he says, voice hitching only slightly as he goes to work with the razor again. This time, Cullen keeps his eyes open, watching Dorian’s face. His jaw is set in a tight line, his brows knit together in concentration, determined to finish what he’s started; but there’s a glint of fear in his eyes, or maybe regret, that makes Cullen’s chest ache to see.

Cullen’s hand is still trembling faintly, but he lifts it from his lap, and places it gently on Dorian’s hip.

The crease in Dorian’s brow deepens. “You shouldn’t,” he says; which isn’t _don’t_ as Cullen might have expected. After all, a slip of the thumb doesn’t necessarily invite what Cullen might wish. It might be that Cullen himself is simply weak; that it’s been far too long since anyone treated him with so much gentleness.

“If it bothers you, I won’t.”

“What will they say?” The razor makes its final pass, and Dorian sets it carefully aside, begins wiping stray bits of lather from Cullen’s face with a damp cloth - though this is something Cullen could do himself, tremors or not.

Instead, Cullen lets his fingers press into the leather of Dorian’s belt. Dorian doesn’t shift away. “There’s no one here but us.”

Dorian sets the cloth aside, gracing Cullen’s cheek with a playful pat. The touch is startling against the freshly bared skin. “If I didn’t know you better, Commander, I might think this had all been an elaborate ruse to get me alone in your bedchamber.”

The idea puts a spike of guilt in Cullen’s chest. “Dorian - I would never - I only -”

“Shh…” Dorian strokes Cullen’s cheek, delicately, with the back of one finger. “I know you’re only being foolish. You don’t know the kind of trouble you’re inviting.”

“I don’t care about that,” Cullen protests - feeling warm all over now, and more than a little angry, too, for the people who have made Dorian feel unworthy. 

Dorian laughs, softly. “I truly believe you probably don’t.”

“You say you know me,” Cullen glances away, then back, catches Dorian’s eyes and holds their gaze, firmly. His stomach has become butterflies, his heart a leaping hare. “Would you like to know me better still?”

Dorian cups Cullen’s fresh-shorn face in both hands, smiles, “I think I would. Very much.”

For all its clasps and buckles, Dorian’s ensemble comes apart with remarkable ease, once Cullen loosens the largest belt. Cullen’s own clothes - the simple shirt and trousers he wears beneath his armour - are easier still to do away with. When they settle onto the bed together, with Dorian astride Cullen’s hips, his cheeks flushed bright with excitement, Cullen finds refuge for his unsteady hands everywhere he can reach - thighs, belly, chest shoulders. Dorian kisses his soap-softened cheeks, then his mouth, with a slow caress of tongue that makes Cullen groan softly, makes every inch of his skin tingle, from his forehead down to his toes.

“Your hand,” Dorian says, gently, fingertips dancing against Cullen’s wrist. “If you would kindly.”

Cullen presents it. The tremor seems less pronounced now, perhaps because it feels a little like his entire body is trembling. Dorian produces a small vial concealed in the sheets, which must have come earlier from some pocket or pouch, though Cullen never noticed it, and places several drops in his own palm, before spreading it over Cullen’s fingers.

“I trust you know what to do, _Commander_ ,” he drawls, guiding Cullen’s hand back between his legs. The inflection Dorian places on his title, the sly upturn of his lips, is almost too much for Cullen to bear. He is not a complete stranger to this particular act, though he’s not sure he has ever undertaken it so openly; in the past it was reserved for darkened corners of the barracks, for hideaways in the trees. He’s never had the luxury of so closely observing his partner’s face as his first finger slips in.

Dorian is tight around him, wickedly hot. Cullen slips his finger in and out as Dorian makes a small, pleased sound, rocking minutely with the motion of Cullen’s hand.

“You needn’t be so _gentle_.”

“I want to be gentle.”

Cullen moves to kiss him, but Dorian ducks his head, his face flushed with embarrassment; and Cullen’s lips find Dorian’s forehead instead, as he replaces one finger with two. Dorian rocks eagerly into it, seeking some pleasure not yet attained, rubbing himself against Cullen’s stomach and finally - wonderfully - finding Cullen’s mouth with his own. He whimpers - no doubt despite himself - when Cullen’s fingers slip out again.

Cullen reaches for his own cock, but Dorian’s hand gets there first, and Cullen is left to grip Dorian’s thighs, fingers dimpling the skin as Dorian guides him, sinking down and down, his breath escaping with tiny, stunted sounds. He moves himself languorously at first, spine arching, shoulders flexing. When Cullen thrusts up to meet him, he says something - likely blasphemous - in Tevene, followed by, “Ah - mmm - like that - just there.”

Dorian has one hand tangled in his own hair, the other braced on Cullen’s chest, bites his lower lip as he and Cullen meet, draw apart, and meet again. He’s beautiful, and Cullen tries to tell him so, but he’s too breathless for it. Instead, Cullen kisses him, palms his straining erection, whispers his name, and watches Dorian shake apart. As Dorian trembles and tightens around him, rakes trimmed, painted fingernails through the coarse hair on Cullen’s chest, he looks down at cullen with such open satisfaction, such gentle longing, that Cullen feels something tight in his chest unspool like yarn, just before the pleasure overtakes him.

They are still for a few moments, and then Dorian tenderly pushes the damp, curled strands of hair from Cullen’s forehead, before disentangling himself. Cullen makes room for him to stretch out on the bed, but Dorian chooses to tuck against him instead, an arm thrown across his body.

“Well Commander,” he laughs breathlessly, “I must say I don’t much want to attend a stuffy diplomatic dinner after all that.”

Cullen turns his head, kisses Dorian’s temple. “You know you can call me by name, Dorian.”

Dorian’s fingers tap gently against Cullen’s ribs. Cullen put his hand over top to still them. “When we are like this?”

He chuckles, “No. Always.”

Dorian hums to himself. “Very well.” He skims a finger over Cullen’s smooth, sweat-damp cheek and smiles. “Are you going to help me get cleaned up for dinner, Cullen?”

-End-


End file.
